


The Foundations of Home

by barrelrider



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Moving, Retirement, Retirementlock, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/pseuds/barrelrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home improvement projects are the last thing John expects (and wants) when he and Sherlock move out to a cottage by the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Foundations of Home

When Sherlock tells John that he bought a cottage in Sussex for their retirement, John assumes that the cottage will be in a similar state that 221B was in when he first moved in: belongings everywhere, a presumption of homeliness; a mess, but the beginning of  _their_  mess.

It’s just a mess. Empty, with faulty circuits and rusting pipes and a mouldy bathtub. The fireplace is nice, albeit completely covered in age-old ash. The porthole window looking out to the yard from the kitchen is charming and covered in cobwebs. 

“Prime spot,” John mumbles, unimpressed, as he examines the edge of the spherical windowsill. The white paint is chipping. He hears Sherlock come in, beginning to move in their boxes. He turns around to complain, but Sherlock is absolutely beaming, so he keeps his mouth shut and goes outside to help, bracing himself for inevitable renovations.

-

Part of the ceiling sprinkles into John’s morning tea as Sherlock moves about upstairs. John dumps his cup and tries for coffee instead. The coffee brewer doesn’t work because the circuit in the kitchen is dead. When John goes to get more water from the sink, he notices for the first time that the water looks slightly cloudy. He goes out and buys water bottles to put in the lukewarm fridge with the falling condiment rack.

He hears the pipes squeak and scream overhead, then hears a thump. More of the ceiling cascades down like snow. John rushes upstairs as fast as his 61-year old body can go, and he finds Sherlock lying in the tub with a spectacular-looking bump on his head and the showerhead in his hand. Water is spraying wildly from the neck. He’s entirely soaked.

“The water works,” Sherlock proclaims weakly. With a glare, John helps him up.

It’s been twenty hours.

 

-

It takes a week for their things to get (mostly) settled, for the kitchen water to run clear, and for (half of) the circuits to work as long as you give the wall a good thumping as you flick on the light. But, they have a bed, and their have their chairs, and they have each other, and really, John doesn’t see how any of that can ever disappoint or fail him. They sink into their respective chairs in front of the fireplace (cleaned at the cost of John’s lungs) and eat canned stew. Their socked toes touch.

“It’s not that bad, really,” John says with some trepidation. He’s just noticed a crack above the fireplace.

So has Sherlock. “Mm. Rustic country charm; just what every retired doctor needs.”

“Part-time retired,” John reminds him. He’s taken a position at a clinic in town; it’s three days a week for four hours a day. It’ll give him something to do while Sherlock does whatever Sherlock plans to do with his time. “And, it  _would_  be charming if it was at least partially functional.”

Sherlock extends a hand to the fireplace. “This works,” he says with a verbal pout on his lips.

“Fire usually does, luv,” John replies flatly before taking a spoonful of stew and blowing on it to cool it down.

Silence settles. Sherlock hooks his foot around John’s ankle. Then: “The hives will be dropped off tomorrow afternoon at two, by the way. I’ll be out in the garden preparing.”

With a dumbfounded gape on his face, John lets the stew fall back into the bowl. “ _Hives_?”

“For the bees, John,” Sherlock replies as if they’re talking about the colour of the sky.

“For the bees,” John repeats in a mumble. “Of course.” He’s put off his stew.

-

John doesn’t get stung. It’s a miracle.

-

The clawfoot tub was likely a beauty back in the day, but now it’s mouldy and rough and it’s much too small to fit both of them at once. (Sherlock has it in his head that retirees bathe together every chance they get. John reminds him that they’re not both retired and that that’s just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sherlock grins.)

They struggle to get out of the tub once they discover that it’s too small. John’s hip cracks. Sherlock’s back pops. They take turns in the shower - the showerhead is improperly screwed back on, so it sprays water out of both the showerhead and the neck - and towel off before climbing in bed under their mountains of blankets.

There’s incessant dripping from the shower. Sherlock looks from it to John, who appears deaf to it. “John, the shower-” he begins.

“No,” John replies.

“All right,” Sherlock quickly concedes before spooning his husband.

-

Finally, an entire piece of roof caves in above the fireplace, crumbling right into John’s chair. The plaster will likely stain the already well-loved and warn cushions. John threatens to throw the hives into the ocean if Sherlock doesn’t call someone in to fix the roof.

An hour later and a roofer’s van pulls up outside. Sherlock smiles at John. John scowls at Sherlock and stomps off to take a nap. Sherlock frowns at the space John used to be.

John doesn’t sleep because the roofer is roofing and Sherlock is Sherlocking and everything is  _loud_  and he’s  _tired_  and no matter how hard he tries, this just doesn’t feel like home.

-

John comes home from the clinic to find packets of seeds and a variety of flowers waiting to be planted. There is also soil, a kneeling mat, gloves, a trowel, and everything else needed for planting a small vegetable garden and a few beds of flowers. The note beside the arrangement says,  _For your green thumb. x_  

Years ago, John mused about wanting to plant vegetables and flowers but cited the last of proper lighting in 221B for indoor flowers and the severe lack of anything green on the outside. Sherlock had replied by asking whether or not John finished that analysis of the toenail clippings found in the gymnasium; they could belong to the killer. John never considered that Sherlock had listened to him. The evidence against that is before him.

He manages to plant about half the seeds and half the flowers before his knees hurt and his back aches, and when he sees Sherlock return with what looks like bags of lightbulbs, he kisses him and accidentally gets dirt on his clothes. Neither of them care.

The sex is good that night, and they laugh together over cheese, sausage, and wine in bed.

-

The sex is good every night, really, so John supposes he can add that to his list of things that never fail him (their bed, their chairs even when covered in plaster, and Sherlock Watson-Holmes).

-

Sherlock has been getting stung weekly since they first got the bees. After plucking out the fourth stinger in four weeks, John gives him an epipen just in case.

John gets stung twice one day, once on the neck and once on his left pinkie. Sherlock tries to scrape off the stingers and explain what John did to agitate the bees. John pushes him away and says he’ll do it himself, then storms off in a sore-and-burning upset.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock dares to utter as they lie in bed. It’s the first thing he’s said since that afternoon.

John rolls onto his side, his back to Sherlock, and says nothing in return.

-

Drenched and freezing, John comes in from town with several metal buckets and places them at all the points in the sitting room, the bedroom, and its en suite where the pouring rain is dripping. John’s drippings splatter the floor. Sherlock comes inside, mud-slicked and shivering. He’d gone to check on the bees and to protect the flowers and vegetables from flooding. He slips on a mixture of his and John’s puddles and hits his head so hard that he blacks out for a few moments.

In that time, John hauls him onto the sofa, cleans the wound, and checks Sherlock’s breathing and pulse no less than a dozen times while calling his name. When Sherlock comes to, John hugs him tight. He’s trembling. Sherlock says nothing; he doesn't need to exacerbate John's fears by addressing them aloud.

With a deep breath, John pulls back and glares up at the ceiling. “I’m calling him back in, and he’s going to fix this up free of charge.” He stands and nearly throws off his raincoat. Watching his steps, he heads to the kitchen to make tea. The kettle isn’t working. None of the electricity is. He slams the kettle against the counter; it could be mistaken for a thunderclap. He doesn’t see Sherlock flinch at the sound.

John boils water on the stove, starts a fire, makes tea, hands a cup to Sherlock, and stews in his now-damp, plaster-stained chair.

Wisely, Sherlock says nothing. He doesn’t touch his tea. He simply holds it in his hand and stares at the fire, the orange and yellow light shining in the streaks of grey sprinkled in his hair.

-

The age-old mattress foundation of their bed cracks one night as they both sleep. It falls apart in between their bed frame, and the mattress slips in kind, pouring John out of the bed and onto the floor followed by a still-sleeping Sherlock, who only wakes when he lands on top of John.

Powered by anger, John shoves the mattress off the bedframe, manages to push the foundation halves to the side, then puts the mattress into the hole of the bedframe. Sherlock awkwardly begins trying to make the bed again.

“Surprised that didn’t happen earlier,” he remarks with a glance at John, “given how frequently we use the bed.”

Any other time, John would have at least smirked at the undertones of the statement. But with a dripping shower faucet, a weak ceiling, sensitive circuits, no heating, and a stained chair, a broken bed is the last thing he wants or needs. Instead of chortling, John merely stares at Sherlock and shakes his head. He goes downstairs, despite Sherlock calling his name, and somehow manages to sleep in his chair with only one blanket that doesn’t cover his entire body. 

Before he falls asleep, he reminisces about younger days when he could sleep with only one blanket and when he didn’t wake up so sore in the mornings.

-

He wakes up to two more blankets on his person and a cup of still-hot tea on the table. Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Something in John aches bitterly when he realises he isn’t worried and doesn’t care about that.

Later on, while John is at work, two younger men get the new mattress foundation upstairs and fix the bed up. Sherlock thanks them, tests the bed, and when he’s satisfied he heads back downstairs (and chooses to ignore the hole in the wall from either the old or new foundation).

John notices the newer-looking bed. He also notices the hole in the wall. He pulls out his phone and looks for the right person to call to fix it. Hurt by the thanklessness, Sherlock grumbles a barely-passable, “You’re welcome.”

-

Sherlock spends more time watching John out of the corner of his eye. Even when he’s outside, he peeks through the window to watch his husband as he flits around quietly. He dreads when the lights don’t work or the bed squeaks or a bit of plaster comes dancing down. John is quiet these days, and when he’s not quiet he’s busy being exasperated about some new failing in the cottage.

They sit at the tiny kitchen table with the sandwiches neither of them are really eating. Sherlock looks up at John, who reads the paper.

“Are you happy here?” Sherlock asks quietly, his gaze steady despite how ducked his head is.

John looks up over the newspaper and opened his mouth to reply. He hesitates, looks off the side, licks his lips, and gives Sherlock the answer he was hoping he wouldn’t get.

“Nevermind,” Sherlock mumbles, taking a bite of his food. John sighs, helpless, and continues to read, his appetite fully lost.

-

“Your cane,” Sherlock calls from the hives as John closes the front door. He’s covered head-to-toe in protective gear; he’s finally embraced it, and is enjoying the lack of stings.

John hasn’t even let go of the handle. He looks over at Sherlock and asks, “Pardon?”

“You forgot your cane,” Sherlock repeats patiently as he examines his current tray, undaunted by the worker bees crawling on his arms.

John clenches his jaw. He shifts his weight and utters, “So I did,” before heading back inside. He’s back out a few moments later with his cane. It’s an adjustment; he’s back on it nearly full time, and Sherlock seems to get some enjoyment about reminding John about that. It isn’t that John actually forgets it (most of the time); he just doesn’t want to use it. He doesn’t think about it as he heads out the door.

“Don’t leave,” Sherlock calls quietly.

With a sigh, John looks back at him. “What?”

Sherlock returns the tray to where it belongs. “Don’t forget the eggs,” he amends.

John simply rolls his eyes and limps away.

-

They sit in silence in their respective chairs. Their toes don’t touch. They eat dinner piece by piece and take turns staring pensively into the fire. Occasionally, they look up at each other. They quickly look away.

The crack on the wall looks bigger to John. It doesn’t to Sherlock. Neither mentions it. They haven’t had much of a conversation that day. They haven’t in general. It’s a new normal neither of them likes.

Eventually, John clears his throat and begins to speak. “Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock interrupts him as smoothly as he ever has. “We can move, if you want.”

John gawks at Sherlock. He struggles to speak and stammers when he tries. “What - Sherlock, what are you saying?”

Gazing down at his plate, Sherlock sets it aside and stands. He approaches the corner where the bookshelves tower and his violin sits, covered in dust. He hasn’t played it since he played a song for the bees and they swarmed him. He could have brought that memory up, but he doesn’t. He sits back down and plucks at the strings for a few moments.

“You’re unhappy,” Sherlock starts. “You have been since we moved in. I realise the state of the cottage was and remains less-than presentable and, arguably, less-than inhabitable. I hadn’t the time to put into renovations prior to our moving in. Believe me when I say I would have if I’d only been able.” His eyes gloss over as he watches the fire. “I wasn’t too upset by that loss of chance. I thought of it as a new opportunity. I was under the impression that these home improvement projects would somehow bring us closer. Your mere presence made 221B a home, but prior to your moving in it was dominated with my possessions. I believed it would be a nice change to share in the making of a new home. I was incorrect.

“Therefore, I welcome the idea of moving. Back to 221B, to a flat close to the city, or simply to another, younger cottage. Somewhere where there are no needs for renovations and paint jobs. Somewhere where I can unpack our belongings and home will be ready for you. I have a potential buyer for the bees in France, so I’ll need to take care of that order of business first.” Sherlock’s fingers pause on the strings. “All of this assuming, of course, that your upset is owed to the house and not to me. If my assumption is incorrect, I can also arrange alternative housing for you on your own.”

The gentle playing resumes, but John is deaf to it. He stares at Sherlock with a mix of horror and anger. “So, you just…  _assume_  that I want nothing to do with you or this place because shoddy circuits and a stubborn showerhead upset me.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch into a pout. “When you put it like that-”

“You just  _assume_  that I don’t want to keep building a life with you because God forbid I would like working electricity and maybe a heater?” John asks, his tone getting sharper.

Sherlock’s gets softer and less confident. “I only meant-”

“You didn’t even ask me how I feel!” John almost shouts.

“Yes, I  _did_ ,” Sherlock spits, his eyes finally meeting John’s, “and you sat and practically stammered your way through silently telling me you hated it here!”

Looking up at the ceiling, John takes a deep breath. Yelling isn’t going to do either of them any good. “I was  _trying_  to tell you just a few minutes ago that I was sorry for not saying anything, but I didn’t know what to say. And even then, it was a loaded question! It didn’t even give me any other option other than happy or unhappy.” He can see Sherlock gearing for a retort, so he points at him and says, “No, shut up, you got it wrong, you should have just asked me instead of assuming, you were  _wrong_.”

“Well, I don’t like  _being_  wrong!” Sherlock yells, putting his hands in the air - and his violin, too.

“And I don’t like being retired!” John suddenly shouts. The fire crackles, and Sherlock looks at him as if his train of thought was unexpectedly derailed. He puts his hands down and says nothing as John continues to let his emotions get the better of him. “I don’t like bees. I  _hate_  bees. I don’t like torrential downpours and using buckets to keep the floors dry. I don’t like wearing readers; I know I’m going to need actual glasses soon and I hate that. I don’t like using my cane full time, and I don’t like being reminded that I don’t like it! I don’t like needing five blankets to stay warm at night, I don’t like going to work three days a week and not being taken seriously because I’m old, I don’t like being  _old_ , I don’t like weak circuits and leaking showerheads and breaking mattress foundations and - and plaster on my chair! My arse is white every time I stand up! It’s all just - too much at once.”

John claps his hands on his thighs and catches his breath for a moment. Sherlock stares at John, looking concerned. Shaking his head, John runs his hand through his grey hair and sighs, “You’re enjoying this, though. And, I’ve still got you. You haven’t failed me or let me down. I’ve still got  _you_. I thought that would be enough. I wanted it to be enough. I didn’t want to ruin this for you.” When John swallows, the sound seems to echo on and on. “I… I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he finally struggles to say.

Despite the silence, and despite the fact that neither of them wants to stay on the topic or do anything about it, Sherlock gets up from his seat, puts his violin down, and crouches in front of John, who looks away stubbornly. Sherlock knows his knees can’t quite take crouching for too long, so he sits on the table instead to study John. He has wrinkles and crow’s feet and there’s no more blond in his hair. But, he’s still a sight to see, and Sherlock still can’t believe that that sight is all  _his._

“You look sexy with your readers,” he starts. John laughs and looks at him with an uncertain smile. Sherlock gives one in return, although it’s chock full of confidence. “Your cane is endearing to me. You came to me with a cane at the start of our lives, and so you remain for this new chapter. I’m not particularly a fan of relying solely on our fireplace for light and warmth, either; cleaning it isn’t my favourite chore. I actually tried to clean it with the vacuum the other day.”

This earns a full (slightly watery) laugh from John. “You didn’t,” he says with a grin.

Sherlock looks down, embarrassed. John giggles. “Lesson learnt,” he sums that story with. He touches John’s knee and looks back up. “I can’t seem to learn my lesson with you, though.”

“What lesson is that?” John asks with a raised brow.

“Never assume I will ever fully understand you,” Sherlock confesses. “You constantly surprise me. You challenge me. You are a wonderful puzzle I keep trying to figure out, but I never truly want to know the answer.” He touches John’s cheek and John leans into it with eyes closed. “I apologise,” he says quietly. “I should have simply asked you. To be fair, though, you could have told me, too.”

“I didn’t -” John starts, but he has to clear his throat. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to-”

“Lose me, yes,” Sherlock says with a nod. “I understand that feeling very well.”

John gazes at Sherlock fondly, and sadly, and apologetically, and lovingly. Their gaze is a constant reassurance that neither man would ever leave the other on his own volition, and they share a small smile when they both fully understand the words not being spoken. John leans forward and kisses his husband sweetly; his toes curl in his socks.

Upon pulling away, Sherlock hums and brushes his fingers through John’s fringe. “What should we work on first? The electricity?”

“Please,” John sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t know how many more mid-microwave shut-downs I can take. And pissing in the dark at two in the morning?” He scoffs. Sherlock smiles, delighted by his emotional displays. “A heater next; they’ll be cheaper now than in autumn or winter.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Anything else?”

“The roofer’s coming back next week, right?” When Sherlock nods, John utters, “He'd better do it right this time.”

“I rated him one star on Yelp,” Sherlock adds, as if that will help the situation.

It does. John smiles. “You’re evil.”

“The worst,” Sherlock agrees. When John kisses the corner of his lips, Sherlock’s heart swells. “I’ll look into the showerhead, too.”

“I want a jet bath,” John suddenly declares. Sherlock looks at him with furrowed brows. “With a walk-in door. A large one, too, big enough to fit two.”

“Why a jet bath?” Sherlock asks aloud. His mind drifts to reasons why people invest in such unnecessary and lavish additives until he finds ‘muscle relaxation’. With brows raised, he suddenly understands both the medicinal benefit as well as the sexual. John’s charming smirk assures him that he’s on the right path. “A jet bath it is,” Sherlock agrees wholeheartedly.

“I thought so,” John hums happily. He sighs through his nose and plays with the curl at Sherlock’s nape. “If you think of anything you want to add, maybe run it by me, first. I didn’t think you were serious about the bees when you were talking about it; they surprised me, a bit.”

“Do I need to be rid of them?” Sherlock asks quietly, and John can hear the sorrow in his voice.

“No,” John assures him. Sherlock visibly relaxes. “We can sell some of the honey at market.”

“Hah! Market,” Sherlock grunts. “ _People_.”

“It would be good to get to know our neighbours, you shut in,” John tells him, poking his chest.

Sherlock merely grunts again. “I’m _your_ shut in,” he informs John. “You’re responsible for me and my hermit nature. You enable it.”

“Oh, do I?” John asks with a grin. He wraps a steady arm around Sherlock’s back and pulls him into his lap and against his chest. Sherlock seems surprised but delighted, and John is simply delighted. Their kiss is languid but playful, and John finds that he doesn’t mind having a plaster-stained arse after all.

-

The electricity is fixed. Sherlock spends ten minutes demonstrating the durability of the circuits by jumping around the floor, flicking the lights on and off, keeping all of them on, and by microwaving leftovers for lunch. John claps at the performance and is very happy to have a light that stays on during his late-night trips to the loo. The dripping from the shower is still bothersome, but temporary. Fixable.

It stops two nights later, and the mechanic who fixes it, a friendly woman with a strong Cockney accent, tells them that their new tub will be installed within the next few weeks and while it may take a few days, the pipes all look good and tight.

That night, John pauses mid-fuck and grins at the silence in the background until Sherlock demands that he keeps going. Then, John laughs and happily obliges.

-

The same roofer returns with profuse apology that John grudgingly accepts. Both Sherlock and John watch the man like a pair of hawks as he spends all day fixing the ceiling. They send him on his way, not paying a single pound for the work. When it rains the next day and the floor remains puddle-free, John rates the man four stars on Yelp. Sherlock calls John too nice. John smiles.

-

The bees stay. John tolerates them. He even talks to them as he tends to his garden which, he soon realises, is full of bee-friendly plants. He smacks Sherlock’s hand for it, then kisses his hand, then kisses him, because even if there’s a tiny ulterior motive, Sherlock still takes care of him.

They buy lawn chairs and enjoy sitting outside beside the bees and blossoms.

“The bees sound nice today,” John mumbles off-handedly. Sherlock is giddy but says nothing. He simply hums, adjusts his hat, and prepares for a nap among pansies and geraniums.

-

At the market, Sherlock sells out of honey. When he's outed as the great Sherlock Holmes, he also gets a few case offers from locals: missing sheep, stolen gnomes, and lawnmowers that were supposed to be returned two weeks ago but haven’t been. He takes the lot and brings John along.

Mr Johnson’s sheep flock doesn’t need to be run down like a serial killer, but they do need to be rounded up, which proves to be interesting as Sherlock shouts directions at John over a mass of forty nine loud and confused ewes. They also nearly trip over a hedge. The missing sheep was actually just behind the farm house giving birth to her baby. When they return with fifty one sheep, Mr Johnson claps them both on the back and laughs.

They find Ms Hill’s missing gnome in the hands of three naughty children ("heathens," according to Sherlock) who proceed to run to the creek and throw it in. John and Sherlock manage to retrieve it, but are caked in mud and water as consequence. Ms Hill gives them lunch as a treat. She flirts with Sherlock, who loudly declares that he is Mr Sherlock _Watson_ -Holmes. She’s flustered but apologetic and promises to not make the same mistake again. She assures Sherlock that she’ll buy more honey next week - and not for  _that_  reason - then lets them be on their way.

The sex is particularly fantastic after that case.

The reason Tom Wilson had yet to return George O’Connor’s lawnmower is because he’s smitten with him and wanted to find a way to use the return of the mower to let him know. Sherlock does that for him. John apologises to both of them and lets them sort that awkward business out themselves.

“Thank you,” John tells Sherlock when they get home.

“For what?” Sherlock asks as he hangs their coats.

“Doing this. Taking cases again. Makes me feel not so…” John shrugs. Not unhappy; he's very happy. Not bored, necessarily. Just...

“Old?” Sherlock asks.

John offers him a half smile. “Yeah.”

Sherlock pockets his hands and watches John set his cane aside and take off his shoes. “It’s a terrifying process,” he admits. His eyes warm as he looks at John. “Having you here helps.”

“I know what you mean,” John agrees, glancing up. He smiles at Sherlock and sets his shoes by the door. Grabbing Sherlock’s cheek, he kisses him in a hum. “There’s an old song that’s called, ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’,” he begins to muse, but he judges by Sherlock’s eyeroll and accompanying groan that he doesn’t want to be serenaded by a wannabe Sinatra. John grins. “If I can’t sing to you, then at least come help me break in our new bath.”

“It’s finished?” Sherlock asks, trying to hide his excitement. John holds up a note he'd found on the door from the installers that confirms the very same.

“Finished,” John says with a grin.

Sherlock seems to waste no time. Like he's being timed, he quickly steps out of shoes and begins heading up stairs. He’s already unbuttoning his shirt and is walking in strides; John is almost worried that he’s going to slip and fall in his eagerness.

“Come on, John!” comes his voice from upstairs, and when John hears the sound of the water turned on and the pipes running, he waits for a thump, or a thud, or or plaster to fall from the ceiling, or for the lights to go off.

Nothing happens. It's beautiful.

Sighing, John closes his eyes and utters, “Good to be home,” and jogs after his husband, shedding his cardigan along the way and letting it float to the floor, forgotten.

-

The crack above the fireplace, the same size as the day they first spotted it, remains where it is, a memento to what they came into, what they worked with, and what they've made.

Neither of them mind it, no, not at all.

 


End file.
